


Night Life

by SplinterCell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, Minor Violence, More tags to be added for future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24414115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplinterCell/pseuds/SplinterCell
Summary: Unlike what popular fiction might have you believe, nightclubs are actually a vampire’s favoured hunting ground.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Night Life

**Author's Note:**

> Created for Rumrollinsweek2020 Day 3: Night / Fluff

Unlike what popular fiction might have you believe, _nightclubs_ are actually a vampire’s favoured hunting ground.

What could be more perfect than hundreds of barely clothed bodies crammed into a sweaty, confined space, chasing a temporary reprieve from their otherwise humdrum existences with loud music and cheap alcohol? There are bouncers, of course, but they’re underpaid and overworked, and just on the lookout for fights and drug dealers at any rate.

They don’t pay much attention to well-dressed, sober men loitering on the edges of the action and not causing trouble.

Jack’s had his eye on one man all evening. He cuts quite a striking figure with his tight jeans, leather jacket, and his gelled-up hair. He’s on his own, although plenty of other patrons have gravitated to him over the course of the night and while he’s been hit on close to a dozen times already, so far he’s sent each one away with a smile.

Their eyes meet as the latest in a long line of luckless young women heads back to her circle of friends, and Jack throws him a brief smile before turning to push his way through the crowd to get to the bar.

“Jim Beam and coke,” he shouts to the bartender, and manages to keep his expression blank when a leather-clad arm holding a crisp bill in its hand appears next to his. 

“His is on me,” the man says, “and I’ll have a vodka tonic. Keep the change.”

The bartender doesn’t even blink. Two glasses are quickly set down in front of them, the money snatched up without a word, and then a moment later they’re being hustled away from the bar by the throng of people behind them. 

Jack takes the opportunity to steer him towards a slightly quieter corner. The man’s even more beautiful up close than he was from a distance. He’s middle-aged—a good ten years older than most of the clientele, if not more—but there’s a timeless, youthful quality about him that is both disconcerting and utterly beguiling. 

He clinks his glass against Jack’s own with a sly grin. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Jack replies. He takes a sip of his drink and grimaces. The whiskey is definitely not Jim Beam, and the cola is flat and stale. “Well, I think you got ripped off.”

His new friend takes a sip of his own drink, but if his experience is as bad as Jack’s, he doesn’t let it show on his face. “It’s just money.” He shrugs. “Besides, small price to pay to get a chance to talk to you.” He holds out his free hand expectantly. “Name’s Brock.”

It’s not the kind of name Jack would have expected. Brock has a stereotypically Italian-American look to him; tanned and dark-haired, and he carries himself with the kind of macho confidence most often seen on wannabe mafioso.

“Jack,” he says, before the silence can stretch too long, and the smile that earns him is almost blinding. Brock’s hand is warm in his when he takes it. “Are you here all by yourself, Brock?”

Brock nods. “Yeah, but I don’t really come here to socialise...if you get my drift.”

Jack follows his gaze out to the dance floor. It’s crammed now—just a grinding, writhing crowd as a heavy techno beat pumps through the air. There are still circles of girl friends clustered around handbags here and there, but plenty more have disintegrated as the girls have found their night’s catch.

Brock’s attention is focussed on one particular couple a few feet away—they’re engrossed in each other, his arms skimming along her waist and hips as she sways back into his embrace. But as Jack watches, she catches sight of Brock, and her demeanor changes instantly. The man she’s snagged probably doesn’t seem like such an attractive prospect now she’s seen what she could have.

He nudges Brock’s shoulder with his own and leans down. “Seems to me like you could have any charming young lady you wanted,” he murmurs, and Brock laughs.

“Maybe,” he agrees, and there’s no mistaking his intent when he steps in close and gives Jack a long, lingering once-over. “But I’m not looking for a girl tonight.”

Jack hides his grin behind his glass. 

_Gotcha,_ he thinks.

\---

Getting them back to the apartment is always the hardest part, even though he’s been doing this for so many years that he’s started to lose count. It should be routine by now—feel mundane, even—but it isn’t, and it doesn’t, and Jack doesn’t think it ever will. 

He leads the way up the steps to the entrance and then they’re outside, and Brock turns to him with an expectant smirk.

“So what’s the plan, big guy? My place or yours?” he asks, peering up at Jack through his eyelashes. It’s a look that’s both charming and flirtatious, and that Jack would describe as ‘coquettish’. It shouldn’t work on a man of Brock’s apparent age, but somehow it does. Jack suspects he very rarely leaves this club alone.

“Mine’s not far from here,” Jack offers, and Brock’s smile gets positively predatory.

“ _Great_ ,” he purrs, sliding an arm around Jack’s waist. “Let’s go.”

No, Jack decides, as a heady cocktail of excitement and anticipation rushes through his veins. This won’t ever stop being a thrill.

But he’s become smarter over the years, better at exercising self-control and resisting the urge to pull them into a dark alley and do it _right then_ and _right there_. For one thing, every shop, every office building and every residence seems to have a CCTV system these days.

For another, you can’t judge a person by their appearance. Very large and very muscular men—many of them even bigger than Brock—don’t always know how to fight, and some very petite women have fought with the ferocity and strength of a wolverine.

Jack learned that last lesson the hard way, and he remembers it every time he looks in a mirror.

It’s why he pays thousands of dollars a month to maintain a number of different apartments across the city, all of which are within walking distance from his hunting grounds, so there’s never a need to call a cab.

\---

It’s an unassuming building from the outside: a studio apartment situated above a clothing boutique on a quiet side street.

Inside, it’s light and airy, with high ceilings and two large, east-facing windows. It’s small, but he knocked out the internal walls to make the most of the space. One wall is taken up by a compact kitchenette that’s never been used, another by floor-to-ceiling shelving and cabinets surrounding a large flat-screen TV that has never been turned on. A queen-sized bed that’s never been slept in sits in the middle of the room.

It’s luxurious in a minimalist way; a well-to-do professional man’s pied-à-terre, and Brock whistles in appreciation when he sees it.

“Very nice,” he murmurs, and Jack can’t help but wonder what other apartments—what other homes—he’s comparing it to. “But you don’t spend a lot of time here, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Jack agrees, watching Brock run his hand across the bed sheets. He strips off his jacket and tosses it onto the counter. “That’s the curse of always travelling, you never get to just settle down. You want another drink? I’ve got some very good Vodka here somewhere.”

“Is it Russian?”

Jack snorts. “Of course it is. What kind of guy do you take me for?”

“One with absolutely great taste, I mean, you picked _me_ up, after all,” Brock answers, flashing him a cocky smirk, and Jack smirks right back. 

“Damn right I did.”

He sees Brock watching him in the strategically placed mirrored surfaces, but he has no way of knowing that the drink Jack’s making for him isn’t Vodka. He can’t _possibly_ know, but there’s a slight frown on his face when he takes the tumbler Jack offers him, and his next question makes Jack’s blood run cold.

“What exactly is it you do for a living?” he asks, and it’s little more than practice that keeps Jack’s voice from wavering when he answers.

“I’m an architect. You know that building up by Main and 37th? The one with the fans? I designed that.”

Brock considers that for a moment while he drinks. “That’s a real ugly-ass fucking thing,” he says finally.

Jack gestures vaguely around the apartment in response. “Eyesore or not, it paid well,” he retorts, and Brock doesn’t move away when he closes the gap between them, doesn’t even seem to notice that Jack’s left his own drink sitting on the kitchen counter. 

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“So what do _you_ do, Brock?”

He tilts his face up when Jack crowds into his space. “Oh, a bit of this,” he says. “A bit of that.” In the light, his eyes are a beautiful hazel colour. In different circumstances, Jack could get lost in eyes like his. “Do you actually really care though?”

It’s Jack’s turn to smile. “Not in the slightest,” he murmurs, closing the last few inches between them to catch Brock’s lips with his own in a heated kiss.

Brock almost melts in his arms, the ersatz Vodka that Jack can taste on his lips is already wreaking silent havoc on his inhibitions and lowering his defences, but there’s nothing gentle or weak or submissive about the way he kisses; it’s a passionate and dirty struggle for dominance, and Jack imagines he probably fights the exact same way.

He only vaguely hears the glass shattering on the floor as they stumble towards the bed. Brock’s hands are all over him, cupping his ass one moment and then sliding up under his shirt the next, his blunt nails digging into Jack’s back when he catches his bottom lip between his teeth.

He pushes Brock onto the mattress. “Get naked,” he orders hoarsely, pressing the heel of his palm against his crotch as though he’s trying to control an erection. “Right now. You can leave giving me a show for later.” 

He needs Brock’s attention to be, at least momentarily, anywhere other than on him.

“Yes sir,” Brock breathes, already shrugging his jacket off his shoulders. He doesn’t break eye contact as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and unzips his jeans, but he looks down when he bends to take off his boots—

—and that’s when Jack strikes, tackling him backwards and pinning him down with his knees either side of his hips, leaning his entire weight on one arm where it’s pressed into Brock’s throat while he gropes for the collar stashed beside the bed with the other.

Brock thrashes underneath him with a desperate strength, inhuman howls muffled by the pressure against his neck as he tries to free his hands, and Jack knows he’d be dead already if it weren’t for the element of surprise and the drink.

The howls turn to screams when Jack secures the collar around his neck, the skin immediately reddening and starting to blister, and that gives him the opportunity he needs to shackle Brock’s hands together.

“There we go, you son of a bitch,” he growls, once he’s certain Brock is immobilised and his screams have faded into pained whimpers.

The vampire is shaking, and the apartment is already beginning to smell of charred flesh. Its skin has gone deathly pale, and its eyes are wide and frightened when it looks at him. 

“Hunter,” it whispers in horror.

Jack bares his teeth at it in a vicious grin. “That’s right, baby, and it looks like you’re the prey tonight, doesn’t it?”

**Author's Note:**

> See what I did with the prompt? Brock is a creature OF the night. Yeah, I'm clever like that XD


End file.
